


in the garden of sinners

by sweetsinnerchild



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Extremely Dubious Consent, Rape/Non-con Elements, does hell exist for people with no souls, magic sex toy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-22 16:35:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6086866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetsinnerchild/pseuds/sweetsinnerchild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Where we all fucking belong)</p><p>Questionable decisions are made by monsters with questionable moralities. </p><p>Exhibit A: Flowey. (no explanation needed)</p><p>Exhibit B: Sans. (that fucking toy, why sans why)</p><p>Questionable consequences happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. in which flowey gets into things, like sans' room and fleshlights

**Author's Note:**

> for [creampiesummer](http://www.creampiesummer.tumblr.com/) who is really fucking great, people should follow them
> 
> also you don't need to do my job for me guys i'm already kinkshaming myself so fucking hard
> 
> warning for dubcon. noncon. prolly noncon. and weird biology. who invented ectotongues and ectodicks????? Heed the warnings, because I'm not responsible for your consumption of fanfiction. You pressed the link, not me.

Here’s the thing: that smiley trashbag needs to be dealt with.

It gets frankly ridiculous how he pops up when Flowey doesn’t expect him to pop up, because Flowey has been keeping track of everyone’s schedule. He’s spent one timeline sitting on his roots and just observing what happens in a world where he is well and truly dead, back when smiling and laughing even though he’s bored bored bored on the inside had gotten tiring and stupid.That went on for around a week or two before he decided that sitting and doing absolutely nothing was just as boring as playing nice, and reset that absolutely uninteresting affair.

So he tries different things. How to divert someone from where they wanted to go, and how to get them to a particular place. Sometimes all that's needed was subtle manoeuvring on his part, a innocuously placed reminder on a path or so - but other times, a precisely timed butterfly effect was required. At any rate, the goal was to do it without making anyone realise he exists, because sometimes the best way to convince someone is to just gently guide them onto that train of thought. They don't need little old Flowey to tell them what to do.

Sometimes they do, though. That’s where a particularly loud, exuberant and hopelessly lonely skeleton came in. Just a few words of friendship and assurances and golly, _look at him go_.

But it’s his comedian of a brother that fucks up the finer butterfly effects that Flowey worked so hard on, throwing everything into chaos, because he won’t go where Flowey needs him to go. And even if Flowey tries to ask how and why and curse at him, all that bastard would do is wink and say, “lucky guess,” and Flowey’s back to that patch of flowers in the throne room, the sight of his vines and petals perforated with sharp, sharp bones very fresh in his mind.

If Flowey could feel, he would say that he hates, hates, _hates_ that fucking skeleton.

(And perhaps it’s excitement, seeing as how in a world of constants there is the only one thing that changes.)

So Flowey observes him for a couple of resets, watching how the routine never deviates outside of Grillby’s, home, job number one, two, three and four. He learns how he turns the corner and then the fucker’s gone, but the main point was never how he got there, only where he went. He watches how he eats a disgusting amount of ketchup, how he cracks his stupid puns at people, how he just sits on his ass and does absolutely nothing...

And how much time he spends in his room.

Flowey remembers being in that room, so many resets ago, when Flowey the Flower was just a pseudonym for monsters that wouldn’t quite accept that this weed was their Prince of All Monsters, Asriel Dreemurr. It was a horrible mess and Flowey had backed out of it as soon as he had looked in, because he didn’t quite want to get caught up in what seemed to be a self-sustaining tornado. 

But times have changed, and clearly that skeleton was doing something in there, and Flowey just wants to know exactly _what_.

So Flowey twines himself up the balcony of the house, just waiting for the telltale shuffling in the room to abruptly stop. He peers beneath the railing, before considering the closed window in front of him. There didn’t seem to be any obvious traps, so Flowey inches the door open (don’t these _idiots_ ever lock their doors), enough for him to slip through, and he’s in.

The room is vaguely how he remembers it - incredibly messy and a sore sight for eyes. He disregards the treadmill in the middle of the room, wrinkles his face at the scrunched up ball of sheets, deciding not to go near it. Instead, he approaches the drawers, quickly rifling through their contents. There’s nothing, right up until the collection of socks (ugh, how scandalous) - where one single seemingly-inconspicious sock seems to be a tad bulkier than the rest.

He pokes at the sock with a leaf, vaguely disinterested, and a blue fleshlight rolls out.

It takes him a while to actually consider that the trashbag could actually have something resembling a sex drive, and a while longer to realise he actually _engages_ in it. He loops a vine around the toy, holding it up to the light - it’s not the first one he’s seen, he remembers that those few resets when he tried to feel something, anything, and sex had seemed like an answer even if he's lacking the parts for it - and _oh, the things he saw_ \- and he’s slightly impressed by how well made it is. Trashbag probably made it himself, and that only made the thing even more hilarious, considering how he was probably too lazy to find an actual monster to fuck. 

_What a loser_ , Flowey sneers, moving to put the toy back into the drawer -

But, he suddenly thinks. What if he took the toy, and he’ll watch the trashbag panic and look for his dirty little toy. Hell, he could even give it to Papyrus, and tell him to ask his precious brother what it was! That’ll be an interesting conversation to watch.

Maybe he could even give it back all soiled, even - make the skeleton wonder who had been using his toy. Maybe the trashbag would even get off on that. Flowey wouldn't put it past him.

So Flowey retreats under the bed, noting how the toy glows a muted blue in the dark (how much effort was put into this?), and wonders how much he can do. Besides, sex itself isn't necessarily futile - he could feel, but any hopes of developing feelings was laughable - so he might as well enjoy himself.

A vine to trace the rim of the toy, gentle and teasing. He idly wondered how the trashbag would use this, the filthy little bastard, and decides to go in further. The walls of the toy feels soft, fleshy even, and slightly warm, like it was an actual monster Flowey was touching and not an inanimate object.

_Trashbag really knows how to make them_ , Flowey thinks, and stuffs the toy full with his vine.

It feels like the toy is squeezing it, the flower marvels. That, or the vine was too thick. So he draws back out and pushes it back in, several times, slow and sensual, fast and rough - and no, it's the toy, this is amazing -

Until suddenly, the trashbag himself appears in the middle of the room.

Well, _oops_.


	2. sans teleports home and tries to find who’s been touching his junk (hint: it flowey)

So that toy he made may have not been the best idea, Sans admits to himself after said toy was made. True, it made relaxing a hell lot easier now that he didn't need to reach down, but otherwise a one-way stimulator he couldn't turn off isn't the wisest thing for him to keep around. He keeps it in his sock drawer, hoping that that would divert Papyrus from ever looking into it because oh boy, that is not a conversation he wants to have with his brother - but apparently that wasn't quite enough, as he would later find out.

Working the hotdog stand is a mindless job, and today is a slow day. So when he first feels the tingle down in his pelvis, as if someone was caressing him, he brushes it off as his imagination getting the better of him. Just a few more minutes until his legally mandated break, then he could indulge that imagination, he thinks, which happily betrays him as the touch grows firmer - not that he's complaining, really -

Right up until he suddenly feels _something_ slamming up his pelvis, making his legs clamp together and forcing a strangled choke out of his mouth.

Fuck. Oh, _fuck_.

He staggers up from his seat, drawing a few curious eyes that are otherwise oblivious to his internal panic. Someone was using the toy he made, he thinks, and he feels the slow drag, an in-and-out that makes his knees close to buckling; and the abrupt change to an almost punishing pace which almost makes him keel over. He stumbles over to the nearest shortcut, barely holding himself together - and falls into the familiar floor of his bedroom.

Whoever was using his toy seemed to have stopped for the while, to his body's disappointment - but his still rational mind tells him to check his sock drawer, and every other drawer when he realises it isn't where it's supposed to be. _It's gone_ , he realises, _it's gone it's gone it's gone_ and what the fuck is he going to do? Making that fucking toy was a horrible, horrible idea that he regrets five times over.

He's close to teleporting out of the room when suddenly the other person is moving again, drawing their cock?? what else could feel so thick, out of the toy, slowly and letting him feel the drag - and to his eternal embarassment, Sans shivers. Maybe he should take advantage of it now, he thinks hazily, because he couldn't go out searching for the toy if he was going to be fucked while doing so. Just live in the moment. Yeah, that sounds great.

So when something slips back in, Sans lets himself collapse onto his bed and get comfortable. He moans quietly when the other person strokes the walls of the toys, slowly but firmly, and stretches an arm up against the headrest, imagining them pinning him down by the wrist as they pleasure him. The other he uses to push clothes out of the way, to trail lightly over the curve of his inner ribs, the dips of his vertebrae, down to the tapered end of his coccyx. The strokes get faster, and he grinds up against the air, wanting more friction, wanting them to just take him already, god damn it.

Suddenly the fingers? leave, and something else is replaces them, gliding in and out and was that something wet? God, were they _licking_ the toy?

The thought of it makes him shudder, his bones rattling against the mattress. Sans brings his hand down and slips his fingers into his mouth, materialising his tongue and sucking on them. By this point his shorts were pushed down past his femur, his finger lightly tracing the inside of his thigh. This mystery fucker ( _heh_ ) sure is something, he thinks grudgingly, swirling his tongue around his digits and imagining it was something else. They probably didn’t even realise that they were fucking him - and maybe it’s the idea of being used that really appeals to him, as if he was some sort of whore, that makes him moan slightly louder.

Something rustles beneath his bed, almost as if in reply.

Sans freezes.

He hasn't checked under his bed, he realises with a growing sense of dread. He had previously assumed that whoever had taken his toy would immediately skedaddle off, but what if they stuck around for a laugh? His guard up, he slid off the bed and bent down to look.

The first thing he sees is the blue glow of his toy, which is somewhat of a relief.

The second thing he sees is a flower, of all things, and practically a network of vines surrounding it, one of which was in his toy and that made no sense because it's a _flower_ -

_Don't trust the flower_ , he suddenly remembers, a scribble of a past timeline on his notebook. He had been so confused.

"Hello, _Sansy_ ," the flower says, turning to look at him. Its expression is best described as a gleeful leer, all black eyes and wide smile. "Looks like you're a filthy little trashbag, aren't you?"


	3. actual fucking occurs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Flowey being a sadistic bastard. Don't like pain, time to turn back.
> 
> ...heh. who am I kidding. _that's what you're all here for, aren't ya_.

Sans realises three things at the exact same time:

One: there's a sentient flower underneath his bed, which explains a fair bit about his notes.

Two: said flower doesn't seem to like him much, possibly due to previous timelines. Maybe he was better at his job than he thought he was.

Three: the flower's been messing around with his private parts, and at this point it probably already knows that damn well - and Sans would be damned if he let it mess around any further.

He moves to summon his magic bullets, bones forming out of thin air - only for them to dissolve midair when a sharp bolt of pleasure shoots up his spine. He tries again, and again, but every single time the bullets coalesce into something vaguely solid, only to disperse yet again. The flower inches forward, out of the shadows of his bed, along with the toy it was mercilessly using, a vine plunging in and out of the hole.

“You know,” it began speaking conversationally, over the sound of Sans' gasping. “When I first saw that toy, I thought you were a disgusting freak - but now? Now you’re even more disgusting than I thought!” It waves the toy around, almost tauntingly, and Sans tries to grab at it. Another vine smacks his hand out of the way, winding around his arms and lifting him straight up, suspending him midair. “Ah, ah, ah."

“give that back,” Sans grits out.

“Or else what?” The flower smiled at him, sweet and saccharine. “You don’t like it? Maybe I should go faster?” The pace picks up, and any reply Sans was hoping to make was immediately cut off. “Or maybe slower,” and the thrusting slowed to a crawl, the vine dragging slowly out of the toy, and Sans can feel how it brushes against the walls, a feather-light touch that his body tells him isn’t enough.

“f-fuck off,” the skeleton snarls, concentrating on not moving, on not writhing under the touch. 

“But you don’t want me to, do you?” The flower immediately replies, its face slipping back into its initial leer. “Just look at your body - you really, really want this.” The vine presses up against the walls of the toy, and rubbing into them, and Sans clenches his jaw, refusing to give in.

“Don’t be like that, Sansy,” it coos, “just lighten up! How long has it been since you’ve let go?” He doesn’t reply, not wanting to give it the satisfaction of knowing how rattled he actually is. “Maybe you just need a bit of persuasion."

A slim vine slips into the toy, twisting around the first, and he bites down on a moan. God, he felt so full. 

“Did you make this for someone,” the flower says, trying to goad him on. “Were you going to give it to them, and then let them fuck you wherever and whenever they wanted? Maybe you got off on that - you minding your own business when suddenly someone’s carrying out all of their fantasies onto you… and they wouldn’t even know!” It winds itself up to Sans’ face, grinning widely. “Come on, share with the class. You thought about it, didn’t you?"

“go to hell." 

“Say it like you mean it,” the flower sing-songs.

“i mean it,” Sans repeats, and _finally_ summons a Gaster Blaster to blow this fucking flower off the face of the earth - but suddenly a vine wraps itself around his neck, and _pulls_. He chokes.

“I think you don’t understand the position you’re in here, trashbag,” the flower says, its teasing facade gone. The toy slides down and off his vine, glowing blue on the floor with the wall of vines it had woven over the window, landing a few inches away from Sans’ feet. “How much is your HP again?"

_He knows_ , Sans realises. The vine around his neck presses a tad tighter, a warning - and the Gaster Blaster disappears, fading into nothing.

“That’s what I thought,” the flower drawls, satisfied. “Let’s get to know each other a little better, shall we? I’m Flowey, Flowey the flower. You’re Sans the smiley trashbag, and I know _everything_ about you.” 

A vine tugs at his shirt, ripping it clean down the middle and exposing his rib cage, and starts to explore every nook and cranny. His breath hitches when they brush past where he had only been touching himself minutes ago, and the feeling of vine on bone would be pleasant - velvety soft and firm - if he didn’t want to be here.

He doesn’t want to be here, he reminds himself. 

“Keeping silent now?” the flower - Flowey? - taunts, another vine curling at the base of his spine and up to his sternum. Sans remains silent, training his eye at the floor. The toy glows innocently at him, almost as if it were mocking him. “You’ve always had some wisecrack up your skull, what happened to them?"

He turns his head into the thick cloth of his jacket. Flowey makes an irritated sound similar to how those teenagers out in the forest would when they don’t get their way, and the vines stop moving briefly, resting against his bones.

“Hey, trashbag,” Flowey suddenly says, slow and full of wonder. Dread creeps down his spine. “How far do you think I can force your ribs apart?”

A vine slips through the space between the two lowest ribs on his left, and he feels the pressure on both ribs; a taut stretch that’s entirely uncomfortable but ultimately ignorable.

For now.

Another slightly thicker vine slithers up to join the first. He’s not given any warning when it forces its way through, and it’s really a miracle that his bones are made of sturdier material than he thought it was. The initial stretch has intensified into an agonising burn, and he’s trying to relax, trying to breath in, to ignore the pain - but it just continues stabstabstabbing its way to the front of his mind. 

“Good, good,” Flowey bobs up and down, as if he was actually excited. “Another one!"

“N-no,” Sans chokes out, and the flower actually pauses, pauses and looks at him.

“Oh?” Flowey says, staring at him. “Why should I?"

Why should he? There were so many reasons, starting with _I don_ _’_ _t want you to_ \- but he doubts that a potentially homicidal maniac would stop just because of that. The vine is still curled around his neck, like some sort of collar, and Sans honestly doesn’t know who he currently hates more - the flower or himself.

“Because I’ll die,” he finally says, and maybe that’ll convince the flower to let off. Maybe he’d get bored. “OneHP, remember?"

Flowey looks down at him, considering, and maybe it’ll actually listen -

“Nah,” it says cheerfully. “You won’t."

The third vine goes in, and Sans cries out, convinced that _this was it, he_ _’_ _s going to die_ \- only for it to get muffled by another vine. He chokes on his screams around the thick vine, the panic between that and the splitting pain from having his ribs forced so far apart from each other bringing actual tears to his eyes, and he can’t, he can’t, just let him fucking die already, _he can_ _’_ _t_ -

“I told you, you can do it,” Flowey seems to be saying in his haze of panic. 

Finally, finally the vines retract from his ribs, and the relief is so intense it could even be pleasurable. Sans tries to breath past the vine in his mouth, and tries to not think what he looks like - all trussed up and crying because he was stupid enough to make something that made him vulnerable, and now he’s paying the price.

“Are you actually crying?” The flower sounds delighted, fucking elated, and Sans will kill him, Sans will burn him in the next timelines whenever he sees him, he’ll leave himself all the notes. This must be the first timeline Flowey’s done this, or else he would have destroyed that toy from the very moment he read the notebook. “You’re suuuuch a baby bones."

A vine snakes up to where they previously forced their way through, and Sans flinches - but they’re only rubbing against them, as if they were soothing away the pain. “Do you need your brother to kiss it better,” Flowey says mockingly. He draws the vine out of Sans’ mouth, the vine glistening wet and with noticeable teeth marks that were beginning to ooze white. Sap, perhaps. “Well?"

“Don’t bring him into this,” Sans says hoarsely, too exhausted to threaten, to shout, to do anything at all.

“Still making demands?” Flowey tuts at him. His breath hitches, coming out in small, breathy gasps as the vines rub a tad more firmly at the abused ribs - that felt really, really good - and the flower takes the liberty to continue, a brief reprieve for all he’s been through. “But you did so well… so fine."

There’s some rustling, and the vines move from his overly sensitive ribs, down to his pelvis. His shorts are quickly torn apart without hesitation, and when he tries to curl into himself, to draw his legs up, Flowey just laughs.

“None of that,” he says brusquely, winding those blasted vines around his legs and drawing them apart. The toy is plucked off the floor, and slotted in the empty space below his sacrum. “Hmm… now you look like a whore."

The words feel like a slap to the face. Sans takes them.

Something wet slides into the toy, lighting up the nerves below in his pelvis - and moves in and out, a slow, steady glide. Sans shudders as a vine begins to rub at his ribs again, in perfect tandem with the thrusts. If he closes his eyes, maybe he could pretend it was someone else, anyone else.

The thrusting grows faster, maybe even twisting a little as it went in, working up speed, and he whimpers when the vine at his rib tugs slightly at his bone. It lets off, and then tugs again, and the sounds just won’t stop coming after that initial whimper - a sob, a whimper, a _moan_.

“You _do_ like this,” Flowey says. Before Sans could regain his bearings, the vine moves in and out of the toy, faster and faster, driving up into his pelvis, and Sans moans, low and long. “You sick, sick bastard."

Flowey keeps on fucking him anyway. Something coils tighter and tighter in the recesses of his guts, and his hips involuntarily bucks up towards Flowey, wanting more, needing more. He wants this to be over, he wants this to last forever.

The vine around his neck tightens, and Sans comes.

The world swims back into hazy view as Flowey pulls the vine out of the toy. The vine itself is slightly mangled, all crumpled looking with more white sap oozing out.

“So messy,” Flowey says disgustedly, peering down into the toy. “Clean it."

Sans tries to reach for the toy, glad that this ordeal is finally over - but no. The vines constricting his arms refuse to budge. Instead, Flowey brings the toy up to his face, the flower’s own countenance settling into a sadistic grin.

“Clean it,” it repeats, shaking the toy. 

“You’re a sick bastard too,” Sans finally says, spitting the words out, when he figures out what the plant wanted from him. The flower only bobs up once, in the semblance of a shrug. With it the vine still around his neck shifts, a reminder.

The toy is tilted towards him, a mess of sap and magic, and Sans grimaces. Still, he leans forward, and starts to lick at the walls of his toy. The sap is bitter and sticky, and it takes several licks to get it out, and the way his own tongue is pressing against the walls is not helping, with how sensitive it was . He hopes Flowey doesn’t notice.

Flowey does notice. “Filthy little trashbag,” he coos, almost affectionately, and it’s almost like praise.

He spits at the flower after he’s done, and Flowey just twists to the side, unfazed.

“I’ll see you around, Sansy,” the flower says, the vines retreating out of the window. He needs to set up wards on those windows, and in his room. This, this can’t happen again. “It’s been a jolly good time."

“Fuck you."

“I did,” Flowey laughs, and drops him unceremoniously onto the floor. Sans lands in the pile of his own tattered clothes. “And _you liked it_."

He reaches for the toy again, because it needs to be _destroyed_ , but Flowey whips it out of reach.

“I’ll be keeping this,” he tells Sans, and in one smooth movement slithers out of his room. Sans tries to grab at its soul, to pin it down now that it no longer had a vine around his neck - but there was none - so he simply manages to run out to the railing and watch the flower disappear beneath the ground, as if it had never been there.

As if this had all never happened, as if it was merely a bad dream.

Sans staggers back into the room, onto his bed and closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lols note: that rib forcing thing? Imagine someone trying to make you do the split during sex, and you're as flexible as a doornail. Fun shit lolololol
> 
> Aaaaand we're done. Thank you everyone, now I shall get on the express train to hell.

**Author's Note:**

> [psst. too little chapters? ](http://sweetsinnerchild.tumblr.com)


End file.
